More and More like a Teenage Boy

***This post was actually written 3 years ago during my first DCIS diagnosis May 2015... but I finally decided to publish it...***

I am coming to the recent realization that I am more and more like a teenage boy with each passing day leading up to my decision.

I can't stop staring at boobs.

All the boobs.

Ladies, you can't say I didn't warn you.

Now to be fair, I try to stare only at the boobs of strangers - I don't want to freak out my friends. I look at symmetry and size, and then I speculate on if those boobs are real, fake, reconstructed, flat, round, and while I do not cast judgement per se, I do speculate on if those boobs would make me happy.

There is an astronomical number of women who have experienced breast cancer. There are also tons of women who have simply had surgery to cosmetically adjust the size of their breasts. The truth is, we are all our own worst critic. Hyperbole aside, there is no woman on this earth right now who is completely thrilled with every inch of their own body. This is not to say there are women out there who are the epitome of confidence, it is simply to say that if asked, they would identify some physical feature they would consider re-positioning or adjusting if the opportunity came up.

I consider myself in the same boat. I have lots of lovely features, but I usually can't see them for the fact that the things I don't love tend to poke me in the eye before I can enjoy the parts I do appreciate.

So this leads me to the following conundrum. Will the presence, or absence of my breast make me feel any better or worse about the way I look? Probably not. The coolest breast cancer survivors out there send out the empowering mantra that their breasts don't define them, and absolutely I agree. But that does not mean I don't still want to have one. My baby finger doesn't define me either, but if given the choice, I would keep that baby attached to my hand.

For those friends who already know what is going on, you all ask why am I so chipper about this. Well, I can assure you that on my "Just for Laughs" commentary, I am still using humor to manage the anxiety associated with the surgical decision. This is stressful, and I am worried. I am worried about a long and painful recovery time. I am worried about losing a lot of body conditioning (read... get even fatter). I am worried I will think I am even more unattractive than I think I am right now (that is right people, I have hang ups too). I am worried I won't be able to piggy back my kids, or get a really satisfying hug from my girls. I am worried my husband won't want to touch me anymore. I am worried I won't want to touch me anymore.

It is all very scary...

But then I need to unearth my inner Amazon woman. Rumour has it the Amazons cut off one of their breasts so they had better aim with their bows when they were busy killing all superfluous men they were warring with. (FWIW, this seems to be a fallacy, but let's honour the mythos anyway). I mean seriously, talk about kicking ass and taking names. I am surprised the breast cancer folks haven't gone to town with this line of marketing. Either way, I have moments where I feel like I need to embrace the fact that I am defined by more than my sexuality.

I am beautiful and empowered woman and my chest size and symmetry does not identify me.